#136 (two pennies)

the final blow

left a mark

a narrative of white lines

on my forehead

between my temples

a river of agony

constantly flowing

spreading through my spine

the first line

the one I forgot to write

is haunting me

ever since

the thick blanket

of amnesia

clubbing my verse

to death and beyond

my tale has grown restless

no tears left to shed

no fucks left to give

just two pennies

one for the ferryman

one for a last drink

I think

29th April 2017

#135 (within the cup of quiet grace)

the night was old

all stories told

as chastity

had long been sold

the mirrored passion

in her gaze

entranced him

in a scarlet haze

he drank it all

the tears and sweat

his restless fears, doubt

and regret

within the cup of quiet grace

he glimpsed

a single solemn face

the queen of hearts

had lost her smile

was wandering lost

for quite some while

between the good

and mostly bad

her hopes and dreams

were turning mad

her faded glamour

seeping through

the veils of night

soon ripped by spring

the morning light

most cruel thing

and early dawn

the lethal sting

24th April 2017

#134 (caught up)

are we setting our own trap?


 our narratives being shattered

within the endless iterations of dialogue

weaving shackles from needy lines

the perfect illusion

of being connected

you replaced by a shiny surface

I getting lost in translation

 flowers of doom

blooming between innocent text


and the desire to touch

without feeling to much

10th April 2017